


Just Us (Against the World)

by ForeverMidnight



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Character Death, M/M, Suicide, also grantaire painting on enjolras, disease outbreak, there are some happy parts i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 20:50:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6625759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeverMidnight/pseuds/ForeverMidnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’d been fucked up when they’d taken the body. That was the only thing Grantaire could really chalk it up to. </p><p>Their current situation was still pretty fucked up. That was generally the state of his life. Of course, not even he could have imagined just how bad it could get.</p><p>(Or the one where Grantaire and Jehan are lone survivors of a zombie apocalypse/disease outbreak)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Us (Against the World)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr as [inktaire](http://inktaire.tumblr.com) come say hi!

They’d been fucked up when they’d taken the body. That was the only thing Grantaire could really chalk it up to. 

Their current situation was still pretty fucked up. That was generally the state of his life. Of course, not even he could have imagined just how bad it could get.

It wasn’t all that bad at first. The public was informed that there was a new disease outbreak going around. It should be over soon, they’d said. Scientists were looking for a cure, everything would return to normal, and that was that. It was called CPV –Christopher Pacelli Virus –after the man who’d discovered it (and died from it, though the media had very carefully avoided letting that particular fact slip). The first time Grantaire had even heard of it, he had been eating a bowl of cereal one morning, the TV in his apartment turned to the news as Eponine watched from the couch.

“I swear, one day these outbreaks are going to end up like the plague if scientists keep messing around with bacteria,” Eponine huffed.

Grantaire laughed and cheerfully stuffed another spoonful of Froot Loops into his mouth. “It’s for the greater good,” he said through a mouthful, mimicking one of Enjolras’ more prevalent catchphrases. “I mean, come on ‘Ponine, they’re trying to cure cancer.”

She sighed. “This is the third outbreak in as many years, R. And here I thought you were the cynical one.”

“I am,” he agreed, “I’m just saying that in this day and age, medical technology can handle an outbreak or two.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she rolled her eyes and switched off the TV, ignoring his noise of protest. “I have to go, but do me a favor and at least _try_ to clean up the place?” She said as she gathered her things and started towards the front door. “Gavroche is coming today and I don’t want a repeat of last time.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Grantaire saluted her, earning a fondly annoyed eye roll before she left. Last time Eponine’s brother had come over, he’d accidentally stumbled across Grantaire’s stash and had almost used it before Eponine caught him.

Eponine still hadn’t quite forgiven him for that one.

He finished off his cereal and stretched; it was going to be a long day.

\---

Two weeks later found Grantaire at Enjolras’ place, his head on the blonde’s lap. Enjolras was absentmindedly playing with his hair as he read and Grantaire hummed contentedly. The news was a low hum in the background, just in case anything the Amis could use in one of their many campaigns popped up.

“An antibody has been created to neutralize CPV,” one of the reporters announced, grabbing Grantaire’s attention. He reached for the remote to raise the volume.

“Eponine was wrong,” he commented idly, eyes drifting closed as Enjolras massaged his scalp.

“About what?” Enjolras asked, turning another page.

Grantaire snorted. “She thinks one of these outbreaks is going to be the next plague.”

The blonde shook his head. “That’s unlikely. In recent years, sanitation and medical technology has undergone some astounding advancements-”

“I know,” Grantaire interrupted him, sensing the start of a tangent, “but apparently ‘Ponine doesn’t think so.”

“Speaking of,” Enjolras started, “how did Gavroche’s visit go?” He asked it nonchalantly, but Grantaire tensed, aware that he was treading on thin ice. He hadn’t forgotten what had happened the last time they’d seriously fought. Enjolras didn’t exactly approve of Grantaire’s habitual usage. They’d gotten loud last time, Enjolras nearly chasing him off with accusations of being a useless junkie. It had been ugly and had taken almost a month for things to settle back to normal.

Well, normal for them, anyway.

“It was fine,” Grantaire answered, knowing that nothing quite as bad had happened. “You should have seen his face when he found my porn collection,” he said with a wicked smirk, earning him a disapproving smack to the top of his head.

“You’re corrupting him,” Enjolras tsked. Grantaire smiled wryly. It stung a bit, even though he knew Enjolras hadn’t meant it like that. Instead he forced laughter.

“He’s fourteen, Apollo. He’s already been corrupted.”

\---

Joly had been the first to inform them that the antibody hadn’t slowed down the virus’ progress.

“We’ve been studying it in one of my med classes,” he explained. “It’s spreading faster than the antibody is being given, which, given the _nature_ of the disease itself, and its way of spreading, is somewhat odd.” 

The Musain was packed that night. The Amis had settled in for one of their more formal meetings, but when it had become clear that no more work could be done without further research, they had ended up talking about other things.

Feuilly shook his head. “I’m sure it’ll be fine soon enough,” he said before the conversation drifted towards Bahorel’s latest barely-legal escapade.

\---

Feuilly had been wrong.

Feuilly had been _very_ wrong.

The outbreak of CPV finally flooded the news stations as the virus began to sweep the streets in alarmingly rapid rates. It had at first only infected those in direct contact with the Pacelli research. The disease had slowed and seemingly disappeared after the antibody’s distribution a month and a half before. Now it was clear that the virus had not left and was infecting many more people than had been anticipated.

“This is a Code 19 order. Hospitals are now issuing vaccinations to any and every one. People are expected to receive treatment regardless of financial or medical situation.”

Jehan shut off the news and looked Grantaire dead in the eye. “I’m scared of needles,” he said, leaning against R’s shoulder. Eponine was out with Combeferre, leaving Grantaire the apartment, and Jehan had come over when Courfeyrac mentioned he’d had to work late.

Grantaire nodded. The order would eventually involve the police if the virus kept spreading, making sure that everyone would be vaccinated and safe. “Do you want to ease up before we go to the hospital tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Jehan nodded. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

Grantaire left the room and came back with his stash of several substances and a few bottles of shitty alcohol. Hospitals or no, ‘easing up’ was a common occurrence with Jehan, especially since no one else in Les Amis had much by way of a ready supply. 

Neither of them spoke as Grantaire rolled a pair of joints with practiced efficiency, offering one to Jehan after he had finished. “Pick your poison,” he said as he gestured to the array of alcohol. All of them were shit, but they were _cheap_ shit, which happened to be the best kind.

Jehan smiled gratefully and took a swig of vodka right from the bottle. Grantaire did the same with a bottle of scotch, grimacing as the liquid burned on its way down.

It wasn’t long before Grantaire was laughing mindlessly, Jehan babbling beside him in slur of almost incoherent words. His mind was fucked, so fucked up he could hardly register the opening of his apartment door and the angry “Grantaire, put that bottle down,” that resonated from a new figure entering the room. It was one more gulp before the room spun much too fast and the lights became much too dim.

\---

He woke up in the hospital, the stark white walls and sterile smell definitely not helping his hangover. Enjolras was nodding off in a chair beside his bed, and Grantaire reached out to him in a groggy haze. The blonde immediately jerked up at Grantaire’s touch and sighed in relief. “How’re you feeling?” He asked, reaching up to brush back the tufts of hair that fell in Grantaire’s face.

“I’m fine,” Grantaire said, his throat sore but he was relatively okay. “My head hurts though.”

“It’s just the hangover,” Enjolras smiled softly. “Joly freaked when Eponine told him you’d passed out on your couch,” he laughed. “He thought you’d overdosed or drank yourself to death.”

“Ah,” Grantaire nodded, understanding how he’d ended up in the hospital. He tried sitting up but collapsed back down when his head started spinning and his stomach lurched.

“Careful,” Enjolras said, placing a hand on his arm. “They injected you with the CPV antibody while you were here.” Grantaire looked down at the previously unnoticed bandage on the vein of his right arm and grunted. “I got mine too,” he mentioned, holding out his arm for Grantaire to see.

“What about Jehan?” he asked.

“He’s fine. Courf’s with him in the room across the hall. He wasn’t in as bad of a shape as you last night.” Grantaire nodded.

A nurse came in and handed Grantaire a couple of painkillers for his headache, advising him to take it easy before letting him go.

\---

The next few days were hell.

After getting the shot (some in the Amis later than others), they soon found out that the usual post-vaccination sickness that occurred was, in retrospect, severely tame. Grantaire groaned as he slid off of the toilet bowl and collapsed into a shaking mess on the bathroom floor. Enjolras, a few feet away from him and occupying the sink, was in no better condition. Sweat matted his forehead as he held his hair away from his face and heaved, his complexion pale and his hands trembling.

They both panted for breath, trying to recover from the incessant lurching in their stomachs. Enjolras was the first to speak up. “You know, when we get better, we really need to go on a date.”

Grantaire laughed, a sound that turned into a moan of pain halfway through. “I’m holding you to that,” he managed before his stomach reeled again.

\---

“Don’t you dare try to tell me I can’t to get up today,” Enjolras warned when Grantaire tried to pull him back under the covers. “We’ve been sick for the past week and you’re not allowed to make me stay in bed.”

Grantaire hummed, a smile playing lazily on his lips. “I can think of a few things we could do in bed though.”

Enjolras sputtered, his face flaming at the notion. “You’re disgusting,” he replied.

Grantaire’s snorted. “And you love it,” he countered, releasing his grip on the blonde’s wrist. Enjolras left for the bathroom and Grantaire closed his eyes again when he heard the shower start.

When Enjolras returned a few minutes later, torso flecked with water droplets and a towel hanging loosely around his waist, Grantaire hummed in appreciation.

“Enjoying the view?” He asked, bending down to grab some clothes from his dressers. The dark haired man hummed again, letting out a choked noise midway as Enjolras dropped the towel in order to pull on a pair of boxer briefs.

“You torture me, Apollo,” Grantaire groaned, throwing a pillow over his face when Enjolras smiled deviously in return. 

“You torture yourself, R,” he laughed. “Now come on, I owe you a date.”

\---

Everything had gone back to normal; the news kept updates on CPV to a minimum and the latest trending headlines returned to which celebrity wore what.

Life went on too as Grantaire got his first portfolio at an art gallery a few weeks later. When he had first gotten the commission, he had expected it to be a hoax. “It’s too good to be true,” he relayed to Enjolras, “which probably means it is.” They were sitting in a diner, a milkshake with two straws pushed off to the side of the table.

Enjolras sighed and reached out for Grantaire’s hands in comfort. “You’re talented, Grantaire,” he assured him.

“You’re saying that because you’re dating me,” he waved him off, bundling his insecurities up and tucking them into his own mind. As soon as he said it, he regretted it. He had gotten better at letting his guard down over the years, especially once he and Enjolras got together. In the past his distrust had been the cause of too many arguments and a catalyst for spiraling him deeper into self-hatred. Hiding his fears and keeping them to himself was also often why Enjolras got mad at him, even now.

Rather than steeling himself, Enjolras rubbed circles on Grantaire’s hands with his thumbs. He didn’t argue. It didn’t mean he agreed with the statement, he just knew better than to try to convince Grantaire that he was, in fact, a brilliant artist when he was in one of these moods. Shutting himself in made him defensive in the sense that he refused any kind words about his own value. Instead, he let the contact between them fill the silence for a few moments before speaking. “Paint me.”

Grantaire laughed as he finally looked up. “I do that enough as it is.”

Enjolras shook his head. “No, paint _on_ me,” he clarified. It was an offer that he didn’t make often. Not that he didn’t enjoy it, but the intimacy it created was so profound that he reserved it on occasion.

Grantaire gave the faintest of smiles in answer, small but deeply genuine.

The way back to Grantaire’s apartment was quiet; comprised of shared smiles and squeezes of their clasped hands as they navigated the subway and walked along the streets.

As soon as they closed the door, Grantaire headed toward the cabinet with his paint supplies. While he busied himself with filling mason jars with water and squeezing paint onto a palette, Enjolras sauntered off into his boyfriend’s bedroom and stripped himself of his shirt. He opted for turning on the lamp rather than the overhead lights before laying down on the bed and closing his eyes.

A few minutes later, he heard Grantaire come into the room and set his supplies on the night stand. He listened to the soft clicks of the iPod dock as Grantaire started up some music, an acoustic song with soft female vocals. He felt the bed dip as the Grantaire got on and the pressure of his weight as he straddled his lower half.

Grantaire leaned over, his bare torso pressed to Enjolras’ back as he pressed kisses on the blonde’s shoulders. Slowly, he trailed his lips down his spine, reaching the small of his back before sitting up again. He reached over to the nightstand and grabbed his palette and a jar of brushes. Dipping a brush into paint, he gently pressed the tip to the spans of skin in front of him.

It started slow, a couple of strokes here and there while he decided what he was creating. After a while, colors started swirling together, the image of a sunrise coming to life. Vibrant reds and yellows faded to periwinkle skies; a world about to dawn.

\---

Courfeyrac was the first to propose the idea of a party. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t thrown them before, but this was especially dedicated to “the cure for fucking _cancer_ ,” he exclaimed.

It was a month after they had all gotten their antibodies. Though CPV had been all but eradicated from the news, the fact that after the vaccines had been distributed the rate of cancer had gone down significantly had been plastered everywhere.

“They did it,” Joly exclaimed. “We’ve been looking at the virus ever since the initial outbreak. Although, it wasn’t the vaccine of virus itself, it was the antibody they created for it that reduced rates.”

“And what better way to celebrate a scientific breakthrough than to crack a bottle of tequila?” Courfeyrac insisted.

That was how they found themselves loaded into Bahorel and Feuilly’s townhouse a couple of days later. It had started as more of a hangout: Musichetta brought over her pack of Cards Against Humanity to play and Cosette brought over brownies (split between edibles and normal baked goods, courtesy of Grantaire’s stash). The party really kicked up when Eponine’s childhood friend, Montparnasse, arrived along with his crew. A couple of co-workers showed up as well as friends of friends, and soon their hangout had expanded into a full on house party.

“To cancer!” Courfeyrac and Grantaire yelled above the music as they raised their cups.

“To cancer,” came Jehan’s reply, eyes lidded and a joint pinched between his thumb and forefinger. 

Courfeyrac smiled at the ginger, a hand coming up to card his fingers through the long strands of hair. “And to you, my love,” he added, placing a kiss to Jehan’s lips.

“You guys are gross,” Eponine chimed in as she and Combeferre joined them. 

Grantaire tipped his cup in greeting. “Seconded.”

“Just wait until were alone,” Jehan winked, earning a couple of laughs. He took in Eponine’s smudged lipstick and the darkened color of Combeferre’s mouth before adding, “You’re one to talk.” 

The dark haired girl laughed while the boy beside her spoke up. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he challenged.

Courfeyrac shook his head. “Actually I wouldn’t,” he chuckled.

They chatted for a few minutes, exchanging laughs and stories before they were interrupted by a loud chant of “ _Shots! Shots! Shots!_ ”

The five of them pushed their way through the house until they could see what was happening.

“Is that Marius?” Courfeyrac exclaimed in amusement. 

The redhead was standing in front of Cosette, face flaming like a tamale as she lay down on the counter in front of him. 

“Looks like he’s about to pop his body shot cherry,” Eponine joked. “Not something I particularly feel the need to see. Who wants to dance?”

The rest of the night was loud and boisterous, sweat and alcohol sticking to any and everything. It was definitely a way to go out; not with a bang but with the feeling of infinity in their veins.

\---

Infinity, as it turned out, was a superficial feeling that lasted approximately two more weeks.

Enjolras was the first one to start showing signs. After all, he had gotten the antibody before anyone else. It started out with just a little lightheadedness, the color draining slightly from his face. Everyone thought it was just a head cold, so they didn’t look into it.

Soon Bossuet fell ill too. He called out of work for a couple of days. It was fine.

Gradually everyone in Les Amis started getting sick. One by one, they dropped like flies as they all experienced nausea and vomiting. Everyone except Grantaire and Jehan.

They thought their immune systems might just somehow be working brilliantly as it fended them off from the flu season. Everything was fine.

It wasn’t until Enjolras had been sick for a full week and a half that Grantaire became a little more concerned. He was at the blonde’s apartment for the day, alternating between making food for his boyfriend and tidying up while he slept. He turned on the TV while he dried off the dishes, half paying attention as he straightened up the kitchen.

“-warning signs of CPV.” It was a phrase that caught Grantaire’s attention, so he turned the volume up and shifted his focus to the news.

“A large portion of the population is falling ill. Doctors have traced it back to CPV; it seems as if the antibody is only a temporary fix. We will keep the public updated on redistribution of the body as well as symptoms as we learn more about it.”

Grantaire’s heart dropped. “The next plague, huh?” he resounded Eponine’s words from several weeks ago.

\---

Everyone Grantaire knew was sick: bosses, co-workers, his friends. The only other person who seemed to be fine was Jehan, something the pair could not work out for the life of them.

“You checking on ‘Ponine today?” Grantaire asked him as he paced back and forth through Enjolras’ living room, his phone held up to his ear.

“Yeah,” the reply sounded tired.

Grantaire had been switching between his own apartment and Enjolras’ for the past few days, occasionally dropping by the rest of his friends’ places in his spare time. He was exhausted, and he could only imagine how much Jehan was too.

“Tell her I’m sorry I haven’t been home lately. I’ll see you later” he added before hanging up.

Sighing, he placed his phone into his pocket. 

“Grantaire,” a weak voice called to him. He heard the usual heaving of his boyfriend’s nausea as he headed into Enjolras’ room to see how he was doing.

The sight that greeted him was altogether terrifying, his chest freezing up and his eyes going wide as he took it in. Enjolras’ hair was matted to his forehead, bloodshot eyes looking at him, and panting breaths wracking his frame. What scared Grantaire the most wasn’t the weak figure in front of him (that worried him, yes, but it wasn’t new given the circumstances) but the black bile that dripped from the corners of his mouth.

“Fuck,” he swore, eyes scanning the scene in front of him. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

“Grantaire, what’s happening to me?” Enjolras sounded so drained and small that all Grantaire wanted to do was hold him and say that everything was going to be okay.

Except he wasn’t sure of that anymore.

\---

When he found out that he couldn’t even call an ambulance was when he finally broke down. He called Jehan and cried to him, tears streaming down his face as he tried to describe the state that his boyfriend was in.

“Shit,” Jehan cursed in reply. “And the emergency services wouldn’t take him in? What kind of bull-”

“It’s not that they wouldn’t, it’s that they don’t have anyone who is legally allowed to operate a vehicle to pick him up. Everyone’s sick Jehan, even the paramedics.”

“Take him to the fucking hospital then!” Jehan exclaimed.”

Grantaire wiped his eyes, his hands shaking as he took another drag of the cigarette he held in his free hand. “I did. He’s spending the night there. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Are you at home now?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire eyed the door to Eponine’s room. “’Ponine’s in the same shape Enjolras was in a couple of days ago.”

“So is Courf,” Jehan said softly before taking a deep breath. “Look, I’m sure it’s fine. It’s probably just a bad reaction to the virus,” he assured Grantaire.

“I hope so.”

\---

The updates on the antibody were back on the news when Grantaire woke up the next morning. He had just given Eponine some tea for her throat and was working on a bagel before he left to visit Enjolras in the hospital.

“Distribution has been mandated for every care unit, and Code 19 has been reinstated,” the news anchor spoke. Even as she did, her voice dragged and her face was paler than the last time Grantaire had seen her on screen.

When Grantaire got to the hospital, it hit him just how sick everyone was. He didn’t notice the night before in his state of panic, but he could clearly see the weariness in all of the staff members. They looked like they were barely keeping it together.

“I’m here to visit a patient,” he said when he reached the front desk. They signed him in and pointed him in the direction of the room.

Some part of him hoped that spending the night in the hospital, no doubt being given another dose of the antibody, would have magically cured Enjolras. Some part of him hoped that when he opened the door to the room and walked in, that the color would be back on Enjolras’ face and he would be okay. 

The other part of him knew better.

Still, it didn’t stop the overwhelming disappointment when he saw his boyfriend lying in the bed, an IV tube hooked up to him draining the antibody into his veins. His face was ghastly. The black bile had been cleaned up, but Grantaire could still see grey traces of where it had been sitting.

Enjolras’ eyes were closed, his brows creased in fitful sleep. Grantaire sat in the chair by the side of the bed, holding his boyfriend’s hand and allowing himself to shed a couple of silent tears.

He stayed like that until a doctor came in to check on Enjolras.

\---

CPV was the only news topic ever on anymore as the public became increasingly wary of it. Every day the news anchors became a little bit paler, and occasionally one would altogether stop showing up.

The day they released the news that CPV had become immune to its own antibody was the day that Eponine coughed up the same bile that haunted Grantaire’s dreams. Enjolras had been in the hospital for a total of three days when he brought in Eponine as well.

There were significantly fewer staff members than there had been before.

\---

Less than two days after that, both Grantaire and Jehan had brought in the entirety of their friend group to the hospital. They were even redirected to other care units in the area because the local hospital had reached maximum capacity. Everywhere they turned, they saw the gaunt ghosts of people. 

It was the same day that Grantaire saw Enjolras for the last time.

He walked into Enjolras’ room, his heart sinking as he saw the blonde covered in sweat. The staff had tried to wipe up the dark liquid that lined his mouth, but Enjolras gagged more up faster than they could check on him. He had become increasingly haunting, the veins running along his eyes and his arms turning blacker than they should be. The result tore Grantaire in half to look at.

That day was particularly bad; Enjolras had been running a fever for most of the night and it had yet to break.

Grantaire looked at him from the chair, tears clouding his vision as he held Enjolras’ hand.

The longer Grantaire stayed there, the more Enjolras moved around in his bed. The movements started small, a few twitches and a low whine escaping from his mouth as his fever climbed. Grantaire had the nurse check his temperature and was disheartened to find out it was an alarming 105ᴼ F. A temperature that high could be deadly if it didn’t lower quickly.

Soon the twitches turned into spasms, the whine morphing into a throaty growl.

“Help!” Grantaire yelled as he slammed his hand down on the call button. “Somebody help,” he trailed off, his voice becoming a whisper. He watched the nurses come into the room and nudge him away from the convulsing figure on the bed. It was almost as if time was moving in slow motion; a doctor came in and barked orders, a nurse brought in a vial and a needle.

Tears streamed down his face as he watched Enjolras suddenly stop convulsing. He sat straight up, his darkened eyes popping wide open. He saw it for a brief moment, a primal hunger that rested in the core of Enjolras’ eyes. His face was stone cold for a second before he let out a soul ripping scream.

Grantaire had seen nothing more terrifying.

The doctor jammed the needle into Enjolras’ neck, an action that was followed by violent ripping motions from the figure on the bed. It took two nurses to hold him down while he convulsed, this time due to the contents of whatever they had given him. 

When the movements became smaller, the nurses let go. Grantaire immediately rushed to the side of the bed and held his boyfriend’s hand again.

“I love you,” he whispered over and over, vision blurred by the tears pooled in his eyes.

When Enjolras stopped breathing, Grantaire screamed. 

Their hands were still intertwined.

\---

Grantaire didn’t have time to grieve. Neither did Jehan for that matter.

The stages of the virus progressed in all of their friends all too soon, claiming life after life as they watched each person violently die.

It was the same thing over and over: convulsions and a spiking fever that broke with an inhuman bloodlust. They’d seen their friends claw at doctors before being put down.

“Pentobarbital,” a doctor had told them. “It’s what we use in cases of assisted suicide.”

Each time it happened, the hospital staff became increasingly weaker. Where it took two nurses to hold down Enjolras it had taken five to hold down Bahorel. 

When it happened to Courfeyrac, Grantaire was in the room with Jehan. He knew the empty terror all too well, he knew Jehan’s trembling “You’ll be okay’s.” It wasn’t referring to this life.

The nurses weren’t able to hold down Courfeyrac, six of them this time, and he sprung off the bed and lunged at Grantaire. Grantaire couldn’t tell whose screams were whose as Courfeyrac dug his nails into where his shoulder connected to his collar. Pain clouded his vision as he swung his arm and instinctively kicked. Courfeyrac hit the white tile before the drug kicked in and he thrashed around on the floor.

When he stilled and the nurses put his body on a stretcher, both Grantaire and Jehan were silent.

\---

According to the news (and the two lone people who were left reporting), the violent hunger that took place after the fever lasted a few hours if not treated by other methods. After the time frame, they would drop on their own.

Grantaire laughed bitterly when he heard it. “Treated by other methods,” he repeated. Other methods meant anything from the pentobarbital to whatever the hell else was most convenient to kill them. 

_Before they killed you._

The thought flashed in Grantaire’s head before he pushed it back and buried it deep within the recesses of his mind.

\---

A week later the news stopped running. 

The screams of those who had finally reached the breaking point could be heard from the inside of Jehan’s apartment. They were unable receive the drug from the hospital because they were the doctors who once distributed it.

Grantaire had been sleeping at Jehan’s place since the last of their friends peaked, refusing to sleep on his own. It was mutual; they were both too traumatized to stay in solitude. Jehan’s place was a lot cleaner than Grantaire’s rundown apartment, and had much more food due the fact that the two of them weren’t starving artists like Grantaire and Eponine had been.

“How long do you think it’ll last?” Jehan whispered from his place on the couch. He stared out at what would be the window if they hadn’t stapled the curtains shut. It was a precaution, as well as the dead bolted door.

“Days maybe” Grantaire mused. There were only so many people left in the area who hadn’t broken yet.

\---

It took a total of four days for the screaming to stop. Four days filled with the two of them playing music loud enough to drown out the sound. Four days filled with going completely stone cold every time they thought they heard a knock on their door. 

They didn’t even know if they could leave the apartment or not; their fear of running into anyone still walking in the CPV state way too potent to chance. In the end, they decided to stay indoors until Jehan’s food ran out.

It wasn’t all bad for a little while. Since the screaming had stopped, it was the first quiet morning. They could hear birds chirping outside, and if they pretended hard enough, it was almost as if it were a normal lazy Sunday. Jehan fried some eggs while Grantaire painted, his easel set up in the middle of the living room. They ate brunch together with reasonable conversation, things that had happened in the past or their thoughts on certain subjects (both very carefully avoiding the fact that none of it mattered anymore).

They spent the day doing their own respective hobbies, ending it with a movie night with a film from Jehan’s collection of DVDs.

A couple of days passed like that, both of them pretending that the world was still moving around them.

\---

“Fuck” Grantaire scowled as he opened the fridge to find a bottle of dressing and half a lemon. 

Jehan yawned as he walked into the kitchen, his fingers occupied with braiding his hair. “What?” he asked.

Grantaire shifted to give the redhead a better look into the fridge. “We need groceries.”

The weight of his words was instantaneous on Jehan. His hands stilled, his face falling as his eyes snapped up to meet Grantaire’s. The rest of the conversation was silent, the two of them staring at each other from opposite ends of the kitchen.

Grantaire was the first to break, leaving to get a jacket and slip his shoes on. Jehan didn’t move until he came back into the kitchen, raising an eyebrow and looking the redhead up and down. 

Jehan sighed, finished his braid, and got his stuff together. 

Before they left, Jehan grabbed the antique revolver he kept in a box under his bed, and Grantaire picked up Courfeyrac’s old hockey stick.

\---

“Holy shit I’m going to die,” Jehan screeched as he sped down the aisle, gripping the sides of the shopping cart for dear life.

Grantaire was doubled over, watching as the cart headed right for the display of paper towels stacked in the middle of the store. It was comical really, the way that cart crashed straight into the pyramid of paper, everything tumbling over including Jehan.

The redhead stood and brushed himself off. “That was terrifying,” he huffed, glaring at Grantaire’s lopsided smile. 

“It’s your fault for getting into the cart,” the dark haired man replied.

Jehan frowned. “I said push me, not fling me down the aisle.”

“Well I wasn’t planning on meeting you at the altar,” Grantaire joked, earning a groan.

“Hilarious.” On his way back to where Grantaire was standing, Jehan passed the dairy section. Glancing at the yogurt and back to his friend, he smiled deviously.

“What are you-” Grantaire asked before he understood. “No. _No_ ,” he yelled, turning too late to sprint away as Jehan ripped the lid off and ran towards him.

“Meet this at the altar,” he shouted, grabbing Grantaire’s jacket and throwing the yogurt.

Jehan cracked up at the stunned expression that was plastered on Grantaire’s face.

While Jehan was busy laughing, the dark haired man reached over and grabbed a can of whipped cream, shook it, and sprayed.

“Oh, you are so going to pay for that, R,” Jehan gasped.

“Fight me,” Grantaire laughed.

\---

The walk back was better than the walk there. Where before they walked silently, hands clenched on their respective weapons and jumping whenever they heard the slightest noise, they now were able to carry a conversation.

More than once, however, they saw a body laying across the road or in the grass, and in those moments they froze for a split second before realizing that it wasn’t going to get up. 

\---

They got back to Jehan’s apartment awhile later, food dripping from their clothes and bags of groceries in tow.

“I call dibs on the shower,” Jehan said after dropping his bags in the kitchen. He grinned at the chuckle Grantaire gave him in reply. 

After he left, Grantaire busied himself with sorting out the groceries and preparing a meal.

He was making slices of French toast when Jehan walked back into the kitchen. “That smells delicious,” he commented. “You don’t,” he continued, eyes raking over the yogurt still clinging to Grantaire’s clothes.

Grantaire nodded. “Take over while I clean myself off?”

Jehan smiled, taking the spatula and shifting in front of the pan.

When Grantaire came out of the bathroom, the table was set, and Jehan was reading a book waiting for him.

They ate in peace, both mentally and physically. It was the first time they had faced the outside world since they shut themselves in, and while it wasn’t an enjoyable thing to think about, they could stop being scared to step foot out of the house.

\---

They ventured out more after that. Sometimes it was to get basic things like laundry detergent, other times they played Frisbee in the park. They danced on the lanes of the local bowling alley, slipping and falling all over the place. They had free run over the mall and all of the overpriced things that were in it. On more than one occasion, they even went to movie theaters and fooled around with the films until they figured out how to project them onto the screen.

The world was their playground, and they could do whatever they wanted.

That thought was a double edged sword, however. There were days when either one of them went into grievance, the other listening to the sobs from the opposite end of the apartment. There were nights when they cried themselves to sleep or woke up at ungodly hours to shed tears. 

They weren’t really living. They were surviving.

\---

The first time they slept together was a full two months after they had started living together.

Grantaire had been painting when Jehan walked into the living room. He was hunched over his easel when he felt fingertips meet his back and travel to caress his waist. 

He turned, Jehan’s hand keeping its position on his body as he faced the other man.

Jehan looked him in the eyes, gaze unwavering as he placed his other hand on Grantaire’s bicep. His fingers traced circles, moving over the muscles before traveling to Grantaire’s torso and coming to rest on his hips. Lifting Grantaire’s shirt just slightly, he massaged the spans of skin right above the waistline of his jeans.

Painting forgotten, Grantaire brought his hands up and pushed stray strands of hair out of Jehan’s face. He looked into his eyes for any sign of hesitance before nodding.

Grantaire brought their lips together, pulling the other man closer to him. 

Jehan shifted his hands up Grantaire’s back, feeling his skin as he pressed in to deepen the kiss.

It was hot and heavy, and when Grantaire finally pulled away to peel off his shirt and lead them both into the bedroom, Jehan went willingly.

\---

“Mind if I share?” Jehan asked.

Grantaire was sitting on the balcony, a lit cigarette pinched between his fingers and the night air drying the sweat across his bare chest.

He took another drag before passing the cigarette to Jehan, and exhaled the smoke slowly.

“He always hated when I smoked,” Grantaire muttered after a few moments of silence.

“Who?” Jehan asked, passing the cigarette back.

Grantaire inhaled the smoke, and blew it out around the syllables. “Enjolras.” The smoke curled around in the air as if it were laughing at the cruel twist of fate. “He didn’t like the smell.”

They had just shared the most intimate of touches, yet it wasn’t insensitive in the slightest. Jehan knew Grantaire was still in love with Enjolras just like he was with Courfeyrac.

They were silent for a while as they took turns passing the cigarette between them. When it shortened too much, Grantaire took out his pack and lit another one.

“I miss him,” Grantaire said, his voice a soft whisper.

“I know,” Jehan echoed. “I miss them too.”

\---

A couple of months passed like that. Somewhere along the way, Jehan took a Polaroid camera from one of the stores. Soon after that, the apartment had pictures everywhere. It looked livelier like that, like they had lives outside of coping with what had happened.

They were sitting on top of one a bridge over the nearby river, Jehan excitedly taking pictures of the sunset while Grantaire contemplated the question on his mind.

"Marry me."

Jehan stopped taking pictures, nearly dropping his camera off of the bridge in the process. "Excuse me?" He sputtered after gaping and Grantaire for a solid minute or two.

"I'm serious, Jehan. Marry me," Grantaire repeated, his legs swinging in front of him as he dangled them off the edge; the picture of content.

"And I'm serious when I say that you've finally cracked," the redhead joked, picking his camera back up and snapping pictures of the water.

Grantaire laughed humorlessly. "I've been cracked ever since Courf tried to rip off my limbs."

Jehan's hands stilled again. It was tactless and harsh, and also much truer than he wanted to admit. He finally sighed and turned to face Grantaire whose expression had become unreadable. "R," he started carefully, "tell me what's going on." He didn't like when Grantaire became a puzzle, never had and certainly never would now that there wasn't anyone else to confide in. Jehan swallowed back the lump in his throat that formed every time he thought about it and forced it out of his mind.

"I've never gotten married," he stated simply. After a pause of Jehan debating whether he should retort that or not, he spoke up again. "I'm twenty-five years old and I've never- _will_ never-get married," he corrected himself, his voice growing soft. Suddenly Jehan understood as tears sprung up in his eyes and he had to bite down the bile that tried to make its way up his throat.

"Oh, R," Jehan gasped, and it was all he could manage before he was choking on sobs, clutching his camera for dear life. Grantaire's hand settled on his back and rubbed soothing circles between his shoulder blades and Jehan felt his insides turn into a hollow void when his brain supplied that this was the only person he would ever have contact from again. The thought that was (unsuccessfully) forced out of his mind came back with such intensity that it wasn't long before he was gasping for air, breath hitching as he tried his best to contain the sobs that were wracking his entire body. He leaned into Grantaire, feeling the man's arms come around to hold him as his fingers continued their circular motion. 

It was them. It was only them.

Jehan had managed to calm down in time, only a stray hiccup or two escaping his lips as he attempted to control his breathing. "Yes," he whispered, his voice shaking along with the hands that held a grip of steel on his camera. Grantaire hummed in question. 

"Yes, I'll marry you," he clarified, sitting upright and wiping his face with one of his hands.

Grantaire nodded, pulling him into a hug and kissing him on the top of his head.

Yes, it was only them. Just them against the world.

\---

Grantaire formally proposed with a stolen (if they could call it that anymore) ring from a jewelers. 

They were engaged for all of a week while they scoured flower shops and menswear sections. They found a nearby church and decorated it, Jehan putting up fairy lights and ribbons, making sure it looked like the picture perfect wedding.

It was, although they had no guests, no actual priest, and no caterers. They did, however, have music from the collection of vinyl’s Jehan kept as well as plenty of chips, baked goods, and alcohol from the supermarket (Grantaire insisted that they shouldn’t have to cook on their wedding day).

They stumbled through the ceremony, neither of them completely sure exactly how a wedding was supposed to go. 

“I love you because you’re my best friend,” Grantaire started his vow. “You’ve been with me through thick and thin and because you know my heart better than anyone else,” he smiled as he went through every cliché in the book. Jehan laughed. Grantaire took a deep breath, his smile falling. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about how much easier it would be if we had just died with them; if I had just-” he cut himself off and took a few moments to regain his composure. “You went through so much, and somehow you still smile brighter than the sun. You are the only thing that keeps me alive. You are my everything.”

Jehan wiped away tears, holding Grantaire’s hands and squeezing them in comfort. 

“Grantaire,” he started, voice wavering. “I’m going to make sure you only feel happiness on your wedding day,” he smiled at him.

When they finished saying their “I do’s,” Jehan took a Polaroid selfie to commemorate their first kiss as a (not quite legally) married couple. 

That night, Jehan definitely kept his promise of making Grantaire happy.

\---

Happiness only lasted so long when every day was a repeat of the days before.

It had been 6 months since they had been left with only each other when Jehan fell into a depression greater than Grantaire had ever seen.

Grantaire had had his fair share of depression, and when he got bad- it was _bad_. Jehan’s was worse.

He stopped eating. He stopped sleeping. He spent endless hours staring at the wall without moving, and when he did it was to drift off into fitful nightmares.

Grantaire asked him if he wanted to take medication, he even offered to scour a pharmacy for prescription pills that were never picked up, but Jehan refused. He respected that.

The longer Jehan’s depression went on, the more both of them started to deteriorate.

\---

The day Grantaire came back from the grocery store to find Jehan sitting at the table with his revolver in front of him was the worst day since Enjolras had died.

\---

_Twist. Pull. Click._

It was the same routine every day. At some point, you run out of things to keep you occupied, to keep you from thinking about how everything had become an illusion of what once was.

“Hey,” Grantaire spoke softly. There was no frenzy in his voice like there had been the last times. The times where he’d found Jehan fingering the sharp lines of the steel, toying with the trigger and tracing the rim of the barrel. He’d almost snapped then, every ounce of air sucked out of his lungs by the vacuum of mortality, terrified that he’d lose the only thing keeping him sane. In those moments he had spoken as if he were staring at a time bomb, coaxing the gun away from the redhead with measured steps. He’d stayed right beside Jehan until the dead look in his eyes faded, until he was back to normal.

Well, normal for them, anyway.

_Twist. Pull. Click._

Jehan gave no response, continuing to spin the revolver in his hands. The action was more a contemplation than a promise, as every single chamber sat empty. The bullets lay on the table in front of him.

_Twist. Pull. Click._

He paused finally. Slowly, he set the revolver down on the table, eyes never leaving the weapon.

“I can’t live like this,” he looked up at Grantaire. There was emptiness in both of their gazes as cold blue eyes met dull green. The spark that used to live behind their eyelids had been dimmed by months of pain. 

It wasn’t a statement. It was a request.

“I know,” Grantaire responded hollowly. It was both acknowledgement and agreement that resounded.

He made his way to the table, the scuff of his boots the only sound in the silence between them, in the silence around them. He set his hand on top of the pale one that resided on the revolver.

“I need you.”

“I know.” Grantaire slid Jehan’s hand off of the gun and took it into his own. It did not shake like it had before.

A minute passed before Grantaire set his hand gently on the table. Without a word he lowered himself onto one of the adjacent chairs at the table and collected the bullets.

“I’m sorry.” It was a loaded apology. It wasn’t meant for placing the bullets into the chambers of the revolver. 

As if he were watching a movie, Grantaire replayed every second of the past few months. Time rewound itself, as he went back from the current moment to the first signs of change he noticed in Enjolras all those months ago.

“Me too.”

There was no more conversation between them as Grantaire finished placing the bullets in the chambers. There was no more left to say.

When he finished, Grantaire looked into Jehan’s eyes, and for a second there was a flicker of a long gone flame somewhere beyond the emptiness. He leaned forward and placed a small kiss to Jehan’s lips, feeling a slight press against his own as Jehan responded in kind.

When they pulled away, Jehan whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you,” Grantaire resounded. As soon as the words left his lips and fell upon Jehan’s ears, his eyes dulled.

Grantaire brought his lips to Jehan’s temple for a second, inhaling Jehan’s scent once more before replacing his mouth with the barrel of the gun.

“I’m scared,” Jehan’s voice came soft. Grantaire looked at him for any sign of his mind changing, but the death in his soul and his conviction for this moment were the only things he could find.

“I know.” Empty reassurance would have been meaningless. The confirmation that his terror was felt was all that was needed.

One tan hand encompassed a pale one as the two looked at each other with unwavering eyes.

_Twist. Pull. Crack._

The sound of gunfire was deafening, and the ringing in Grantaire’s ears was instantaneous with the slump of Jehan’s shoulders. 

“I’m scared too,” he admitted before bringing the gun to his own temple. He shut his eyes and inhaled.

_Twist. Pull. Crack._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry (read: not really sorry)
> 
> This was written because of an idea given to me 2 years ago for one of those 3 sentence fic ask memes, and I finally got around to finishing it.
> 
> While this isn't the most realistic way a disease outbreak would have gone, I tried to capture how hard it would be to live through it. Yeah, there are happy moments, but witnessing everyone you love die is going to take a toll. Nobody would want to live in a world in solidarity, and I wanted to portray that side of it.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed reading!


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